The Silent Battle

The knot on the end of the dog’s tail whisked approval; for, though he understood exactly what she said, it was the correct thing for dog-people to act only by tones of voice, but when his mistress got up he frisked homeward joyfully, with a gratified sense of his own important share in the conclusion of the business of the morning.

Jane Loring entered upon the daily round thoughtfully, but with a new sense of her responsibilities. For the first time in her life she had had a sense of the careless cruelty of the world for those thrown unprotected upon its good will. There was a note of plethoric contrition in her mail from Coleman Van Duyn. She read it very carefully twice as though committing it to memory, and then tearing it into small pieces committed it to the waste basket, a hard little glitter in her eyes which Mr. Van Duyn might not have cared to see. She made a resolve that from this hour she would live according to another code. She was no longer the little school-girl from the convent in Paris. She was full-fledged now and would take life as she found it, her eyes widely opened, not with the wonder of adolescence, but keen for the excitements as well as the illusions that awaited her.

She got down from her limousine at the Pennington’s house in Stuyvesant Square that night alone. Mr. Van Duyn, in his note, had pleaded to be allowed to stop for her in his machine and bring her home, but she had not called him on the ’phone as he had requested. It was a dinner for some of the members of the Cedarcroft set, as formal as any function to which this gay company was invited, could ever be. Jane was a moment late and hurried upstairs not a little excited, for though she had known Nellie Pennington in Pau, the guests were probably strangers to her. In the dressing-room, where she found Miss Jaffray and another girl she had not met, a maid helped her off with her cloak and carriage boots and, when she was ready to go down, handed her a silver tray bearing a number of small envelopes. She selected the one which bore her name, carelessly, wondering whether her fortunes for the evening were to be entrusted to Mr. Worthington or to Mr. Van Duyn, to find on the enclosed card the name of Philip Gallatin.

She paled a little, hesitated and lingered in the darkness by the door under the mental plea of rearranging her roses, her mind in a tumult. She had hardly expected to find him here, for Mr. Gallatin, she had heard, hunted no more and Nellie Pennington had never even mentioned his name. What should she do? To say that she did not wish to go in with a man high in the favor of her host and hostess as well as every one else, without giving a reason for her refusal would be gratuitously insulting to her hostess as well as to Mr. Gallatin. She glanced helplessly at Nina Jaffray, who was leaning toward the pier glass, a stick of lip-salve in her fingers, and realized at once that there was to be no rescue from her predicament. Besides, changing cards with Miss Jaffray would not help matters, for over in the men’s dressing room Mr. Gallatin by this time had read the card which told him that Miss Loring was to be his dinner partner.

She could not understand how such a thing had happened. Had Nellie Pennington heard? That was impossible. There were but three people in New York who knew about Mr. Gallatin and herself, and the third one was Coley Van Duyn, who had guessed at their relations. Could Philip Gallatin have dared—dared to ask this favor of their hostess after Jane’s repudiation of him in the Park? She couldn’t believe that either. Fate alone could have conspired to produce a situation so full of exquisite possibilities. She waited a moment, gathering her shattered resources; and with that skill at dissimulation which men sometimes ape, but never actually attain, she thrust her arm through Miss Jaffray’s and the two of them went down the wide stairway, a very pretty picture of youth and unconcern.

Jane’s eyes swept the room with obtrusive carelessness, and took in every one in it, including the person for whom the glance was intended, who saw it from a distant corner, and marveled at the smile with which she entered and greeted her hostess.

“Hello, Nina! Jane, dear, so glad you could come!” said Nellie Pennington. “Oh, what a perfectly darling dress! You went to Doucet after all—for your debutante trousseau. Perhaps, I’d better call it your layette—you absurd child! Oh, for the roses of yesterday! You know Betty Tremaine, don’t you? And Mr. Savage? Coley do stop glaring and tell Phil Gallatin to come here at once. My dear, you’re going in with the nicest man—a very great friend of mine, and I want you to be particularly sweet to him. Hear? Mr. Gallatin—you haven’t met—I know. Here he is now. Miss Loring—Mr. Gallatin.”

Jane nodded and coolly extended her hand. “How do you do,” she said, tepidly polite, and then quickly to her hostess. “It was very nice of you to think of me, Nellie. It seems ages since Pau, doesn’t it?”

“Ages! You unpleasant person. When you get as old as I am, you’ll never mention the flight of time. Ugh!”

Her shudder was very effective. Nellie Pennington was thirty-five, looked twenty, and knew it.

“What difference does it make,” laughed Jane, “when Time forgets one?”

“Very prettily said, my dear. Time may amble, but he’s too nimble to let you get him by the forelock.” And turning she greeted the late comers.

Jane turned to Mr. Gallatin, who was saying something at her ear.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“I hope you don’t think that I—I am responsible for this situation,” he repeated.

“What situation, Mr. Gallatin?”

“I hope you don’t think that I knew I was to go in to dinner with you.”

She laughed. “I hadn’t really thought very much about it.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t even know you were to be here. It’s an accident—a cruel one. I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything in the world.”

“Do you think that’s very polite?” she asked lightly.

“I mean—” he stammered, “that you’ll have to acquit me of any intention–”

“You mean,” she interrupted quickly, with widely opened eyes, “that you don’t want to go in to dinner with me? I think that can easily be arranged,” and she turned away from him toward her hostess. But he quickly interposed.

“Don’t, Miss Loring. Don’t do that. It isn’t necessary. I didn’t want your evening spoiled.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, and the curl of her lip did not escape him. “That could hardly happen. But, if you have any doubts about it, perhaps–”

“It was of you I was thinking–”

“That’s very kind, I’m sure. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t get on admirably. I’m not so difficult as you seem to suppose. Why should you spoil my evening, Mr. Gallatin?”

She turned and looked him full in the eyes; and he knew then what he had suspected at first, that she meant to deny that they had ever met before.

He gazed at her calmly, a slow smile twisting his lips, acknowledging her rebuke, and acquiescing silently in her position.

“I’m sure I don’t wish to spoil it. I’m only too happy—to—to be so much honored.”

“There!” she laughed easily. “You can be polite, can’t you? Do you hunt, Mr. Gallatin?” quickly changing the topic to one less personal. “I thought nobody ever dined here unless he was at least first cousin to a Centaur.”

“Oh, no,” he laughed. “Mrs. Pennington isn’t so exclusive as that. But I’m sure she’d have her own hunters in to table if she could. This is quite the liveliest house! Mrs. Pennington is the most wonderful woman in the world, and the reason is that she absolutely refuses to be bored. She likes Centaurs because they’re mostly natural creatures like herself, but she hasn’t any use for Dinosaurs!”

A general movement toward the table, and Jane took Phil Gallatin’s arm and followed. A huge horse-shoe of Beauties formed the centerpiece, from which emerged the Cedarhurst Steeplechase Cup, won three years in succession by Dick Pennington. The decorations of the room were in red and gold, and a miniature steeplechase course was laid around the table with small fences, brush and water jumps, over which tiny equestrians in pink coats gayly cavorted. Miss Loring found to her delight that the neighbor on her other side was Mr. Worthington. At least she was not to be without resource if the situation grew beyond her. But Mr. Gallatin having made token of his acquiescence, gave no sign of further intrusion. His talk was of the people about them, of their ambitions and their lack of them, of motoring, of country houses and the latest news in Vanity Fair, to which she listened with interest, casually questioning or venturing an opinion. The only rôle possible for her was one of candor, and she played it with cool deliberation, carefully guiding his remarks into the well-buoyed channels of the commonplace.

And while he talked amusedly, gayly even, in the glances that she stole at his profile, she found that he had grown thinner, and that the dark shadows under his eyes, which she remembered, were still to be found there. The fingers of his right hand slowly revolved the stem of a flower. All of his wine glasses she discovered he had turned bowl downward. His cocktail he had slowly pushed aside until it was now hidden in the garland of roses which circled the table. She felt quite sorry for him, as she had felt last summer, and now, better attuned to detraction than to praise, her mind and instinct both proclaimed him, in spite of herself—a gentleman. Coleman Van Duyn had lied to her. She was conscious of Coley surveying her from his seat across the table with a jaundiced eye, and this surveillance, while it made her uncomfortable, served to feed the flame of her ire. Coley Van Duyn had lied to her, and the lot of liars was oblivion.

A pause in the conversation when Nina Jaffray’s voice broke in on Mr. Gallatin’s right.

“It isn’t true, is it, Phil?”

He questioned.

“What they’re saying about you,” she went on.

He laughed uneasily. “Yes, of course, if it’s something dreadful enough.”

“Oh, it isn’t dreadful, Phil, only so enchantingly sinful that it doesn’t sound like you in the least.”

“No, Nina. It isn’t true. Enchanting sin and I are strangers. Miss Loring and I have just been talking about original sin in saddle-horses. I contend–”

“Phil, I won’t be diverted in this way. I believe it’s true.”

“Then what’s the use of questioning me?”

“I’m foolish enough to want you to deny it.”

“Even if it is an enchanting sin? You might at least let me flatter myself that much.”

Miss Jaffray’s long eyes closed the fraction of an inch, as she surveyed him aslant through her lashes, then her lips broke into a smile which showed her small and perfectly even teeth.

“You shan’t evade me any longer. I’m insanely jealous, Phil. Who was the girl you got lost with in the woods?”

Gallatin passed a miserable moment. He had sensed the question and had tried to prevent it, cold with dismay that Miss Loring should be in earshot. He flushed painfully and for his life’s sake could make no reply.

“It’s true—you’re blushing. I could forgive you for the sin, but for blushing for it—never!”

Gallatin had hoped that Miss Loring might have turned to her other neighbor, but he had not dared to look. Now he felt rather than saw that she was a listener to the dialogue, and he heard her voice—cool, clear, and insistent, just at his ear:

“How very interesting, Nina! Mr. Gallatin’s sins are finding him out?”

“No, I am,” said the girl. “I’ve known Phil Gallatin since we were children, and he has always been the most unsusceptible of persons. He has never had any time for girls. And now! Now by his guilty aspect he tacitly acknowledges a love affair in the Canadian wilderness with a–”

“Oh, do stop, Nina,” he said in suppressed tones. “Miss Loring can hardly be interested in–”

“But I am,” put in Miss Loring coolly. “Do tell me something more, Nina. Was she young and pretty?”

“Ask this guilty wretch–”

“Don’t you know who she was? What was her name?”

“That’s just what I want to find out. And nobody seems to know, except Phil.”

“Do tell us, Mr. Gallatin.”

“She had no name,” said Mr. Gallatin very quietly. “There was no girl in the woods.”

“A woman, then?” queried Miss Jaffray.

“Neither girl—nor woman—only a Dryad. The woods are full of them. My Indian guide insisted that–”

“Oh, no, you sha’n’t get out of it so easily, Phil, and I insist upon your sticking to facts. A Dryad, indeed, with the latest thing in fishing rods and creels!”

Miss Jaffray had not for a moment taken her gaze from Gallatin’s face, but now she changed her tone to one of impudent raillery. “You know, Phil, you’ve always held women in such high regard that I’ve always thought you positively tiresome. And now, just when I find you developing the most unusual and interesting qualities, you deny their very existence! I was just getting ready to fall madly in love with you. How disappointing you are! Isn’t he, Jane?”

“Dreadfully so,” said Miss Loring. “Tell it all, Mr. Gallatin, by all means, since we already know the half. I’m sure the reality can’t be nearly as dreadful as we already think it is.”

Her effrontery astounded him, but he met her fairly.

“There’s nothing to tell. If an enchantingly sinful man met an enchantingly helpless Dryad—what would be likely to happen? Can you tell us, Miss Loring?”

Jane’s weapons went flying for a moment, but she recovered them adroitly.

“The situation has possibilities of which you are in every way worthy, I don’t doubt, Mr. Gallatin. The name of your Dryad will, of course, be revealed in time. I’m sure if Miss Jaffray pleads with you long enough you’ll gladly tell her.”

Nina Jaffray laughed.

“Come, Phil, there’s a dear. Do tell a fellow. I’ve really got to know, if only for the fun of scratching her eyes out. I’m sure I ought to—oughtn’t I, Jane?”

But Miss Loring had already turned and was deep in conversation with Mr. Worthington, who for twenty minutes at least, had been trying to attract her attention.

XII

NELLIE PENNINGTON CUTS IN

It was the custom at Richard Pennington’s dinners for the men to follow the ladies at once to the library or drawing-room if they cared to, for Nellie Pennington liked smoking and made no bones about it. People who dined with her were expected to do exactly as they pleased, and this included the use of tobacco in all parts of the house. She was not running a kindergarten, she insisted, and the mothers of timorous buds were amply warned that they must look to the habits of their tender offspring. And so after the ices were served, when the women departed, some of their dinner partners followed them into the other rooms, finding more pleasure in the cigarette à deux than in the stable talk at the dismantled dining-table.

Phil Gallatin rose and followed the ladies to the door and then returned, sank into a vacant chair and began smoking, thinking deeply of the new difficulty into which Nina Jaffray had plunged him. A small group of men remained, Larry Kane, William Worthington, Ogden Spencer, and Egerton Savage, who gathered at the end of the table around their host.

“Selected your 1913 model yet, Bibby?” Pennington asked with a laugh. “What is she to be this time? Inside control, of course, maximum flexibility, minimum friction–”

“Oh, forget it, Dick,” said Worthington, sulkily.

“No offense, you know. Down on your luck? Cheer up, old chap, you’ll be in love again presently. There are as many good fish in the sea–”

“I’m not fishing,” put in Bibby with some dignity.

“By George!” whispered Larry Kane, in awed tones, “I believe he’s got it again. Oh, Bibby, when you marry, Venus will go into sackcloth and ashes!”

“So will Bibby,” said Spencer. “Marriage isn’t his line at all. You know better than that, don’t you, Bibby. No demnition bow-wows on your Venusberg—what? You’ve got the secret. Love often and you’ll love longer. Aren’t I right, Bibby?”

“Oh, let Bibby alone,” sighed Savage. “He’s got the secret. I take my hat off to him. Every year he bathes in the Fountain of Youth, and like the chap in the book—what’s his name?—gazes at his rejuvenated reflection in the limpid pool of virgin eyes. Look at him! Forty-five, if he’s a day, and looks like a stage juvenile.”

Gallatin listened to the chatter with dull ears, smiling perfunctorily, not because he enjoyed this particular kind of humor, but because he did not choose to let his silence become conspicuous. And when the sounds from a piano were heard and the men rose to join the ladies, he had made a resolve to see Jane Loring alone before the evening was gone.

In the drawing-room Betty Tremaine was playing airs from the latest Broadway musical success, which Dirwell De Lancey was singing with a throaty baritone. Jane Loring sat on a sofa next to her hostess, both of them laughing at young Perrine, who began showing the company a new version of the turkey-trot.

“Do a ‘Dance Apache,’ Freddy,” cried Nina Jaffray, springing to her feet. “You know,” and before he knew what she was about, he was seized by the arms, and while Miss Tremaine caught the spirit of the thing in a gay cadence of the Boulevards, the two of them flew like mad things around the room, to the imminent hazard of furniture and its occupants. There was something barbaric in their wild rush as they whirled apart and came together again and the dance ended only when Freddy Perrine catapulted into a corner, breathless and exhausted. Miss Jaffray remained upright, her slender breast heaving, her eyes dark with excitement, glancing from one to another with the bold challenge of a Bacchante fresh from the groves of Naxos. There was uproarious applause and a demand for repetition, but as no one volunteered to take the place of the exhausted Perrine, the music ceased and Miss Jaffray, after rearranging her disordered hair, threw herself into a vacant chair.

“You’re wonderful, Nina!” said Nellie Pennington, languidly, “but how can you do it? It’s more like wrestling than dancing?”

“I like wrestling,” said Miss Jaffray, unperturbedly.

Auction tables were formed in the library and the company divided itself into parties of three or four, each with its own interests. Gallatin soon learned that it might prove difficult to carry his resolution into effect, for Miss Loring was the center of a group which seemed to defy disruption, and Coleman Van Duyn immediately pre-empted the nearest chair, from which nothing less than dynamite would have availed to dislodge him. Gallatin had heard that Van Duyn had been with the Lorings in Canada, and had wondered vaguely whether this fact could have anything to do with that gentleman’s sudden change of manner toward himself. The two men had gone to the same school, and the same university; and while they had never been by temper or inclination in the slightest degree suited to each other, circumstances threw them often together and as fellow club-mates they had owed and paid each other a tolerable civility. But this winter Van Duyn’s nods had been stiff and his manner taciturn. Personally, Phil Gallatin did not care whether Coleman Van Duyn was civil or not, and only thought of the matter in its possible reference to Jane Loring. Gallatin leaned over the back of the sofa in conversation with Nellie Pennington, listening with one ear to Coley’s rather heavy attempts at amiability.

After a while his hostess moved to a couch in the corner and motioned for him to take the place beside her.

“You know, Phil,” she began, reproving him in her softest tones, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Aren’t you flattered? You ought to be. I’ve made up my mind to speak to you with all the seriousness of my advanced years.”

“Yes, Mother, dear,” laughed Phil. “What is it now? Have I been breaking window-panes or pulling the cat’s tail?”

“Neither—and both,” she returned calmly. “But it’s your sins of omission that bother me most. You’re incorrigibly lazy!”

“Thanks,” he said, settling himself comfortably. “I know it.”

“And aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Awfully.”

“I’m told that you’re never in your office, that you’ve let your practice go to smash, that your partners are on the point of casting you into the outer darkness.”

“Oh, that’s true,” he said wearily. “I’ve practically withdrawn from the firm, Nellie. I didn’t bring any business in. It’s even possible that I kept some of it out. I’m a moral and physical incubus. In fact, John Kenyon has almost told me so.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Do?

A Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and thou.

If you’ll come with me, Nellie.”

There was no response of humor in Nellie Pennington’s expression.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not I. I want you to be serious, Phil.” She paused a moment, looking down, and when her eyes sought his again he saw in them the spark of a very genuine interest. “I don’t know whether you know it or not, Phil, but I’m really very fond of you. And if I didn’t understand you as well as I do, of course, I wouldn’t dare to be so frank.”

Philip Gallatin inclined his head slightly.

“Go on, please,” he said.

She hesitated a moment and then clutched his arm with her strong fingers.

“I want you to wake up, Phil,” she said with sudden insistence. “I want you to wake up, to open your eyes wide—wide, do you hear, to stretch your intellectual fibers and learn something of your own strength. You’re asleep, Boy! You’ve been asleep for years! I want you to wake up—and prove the stuff that’s in you. You’re the last of your line, Phil, the very last; but whatever the faults your fathers left you, you’ve got their genius, too.”

Gallatin was slowly shaking his head.

“Not that—only–”

“I know it,” she said proudly. “You can’t hide from everybody, Phil. I still remember those cases you won when you were just out of law-school—that political one and the other of the drunkard indicted on circumstantial evidence–”

“I was interested in that,” he muttered.

“You’ll be interested again. You must be. Do you hear? You’ve come to the parting of the ways, Phil, and you’ve got to make a choice. You’re drifting with the tide, and I don’t like it, waiting for Time to provide your Destiny when you’ve got the making of it in your own hands. You’ve got to put to sea, hoist what sail you’ve got and brave the elements.”

“I’m a derelict, Nellie,” he said painfully.

“Shame! Phil,” she whispered. “A derelict is a ship without a soul. You a derelict! Then society is made up of derelicts, discards from the game of opportunity. Some of us are rich. We think we can afford to be idle. Ambition doesn’t matter to such men as Dick, or Larry Kane, or Egerton Savage. Their lines were drawn in easy places, their lives were ready-made from the hour that they were born. But you! There’s no excuse for you. You are not rich. As the world considers such things, you’re poor and so you’re born for better things! You’ve got the Gallatin intellect, the Gallatin solidity, the Gallatin cleverness–”

“And the Gallatin insufficiency,” he finished for her.

“A fig for your vices,” she said contemptuously. “It’s the little men of this world that never have any vices. No big man ever was without them. Whatever dims the luster of the spirit, the white fire of intellect burns steadily on, unless—” she paused and glanced at him, quickly, lowering her voice—“unless the luster of the spirit is dimmed too long, Phil.”

He clasped his long fingers around one of his knees and looked thoughtfully at the rug.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“You don’t mind my speaking to you so, do you, Phil, dear?”

He closed his eyes, and then opening them as though with an effort, looked at her squarely.

“No, Nellie.”

Her firm hand pressed his strongly. “Let me help you, Phil. There are not many fellows I’d go out of my way for, not many of them are worth it. Phil, you’ve got to take hold at once—right away. Make a fresh start.”

“I did take hold for—for a good while and then—and then I slipped a cog–”

“Why? You mean it was too hard for you?”

“No, not at all. It had got so that I wasn’t bothered—not much—that is—I let go purposely.” He stopped suddenly. “I can’t tell you why. I guess I’m a fool—that’s all.”